


The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows

by lokiisms



Category: The 1975 (Band)
Genre: Drinking, Fist Fights, M/M, Nothing Hardcore, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, bar fighting, even though he's tiny, hotel hopping, matty likes to fight people, occasional smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9655733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokiisms/pseuds/lokiisms
Summary: Humans often do not act normally when adrenaline is in the picture. And that is precisely why George Daniel extended his arm in the customary greeting to the small, broken-nosed man.“George,” he said, his breathing still not completely brought back to regularity. It was 3am.The man with the misfortune of a broken nose gripped George’s hand in his own and nodded. “Matty,” he replied. “Thanks for saving my sorry arse.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for a friend. title is a Brand New song.

The first thing noticed by individuals coming down from an adrenaline high is always their own labored breathing. This instance was no exception.

The second thing noticed varies from person to person. Sometimes the second thing taken into account is the aftermath of the scene of whatever has happened (in this case, a bar fight). Sometimes it is the other individuals involved. And sometimes, it is the sight of a small, curly-haired man with a bloody nose and, against all odds and typical human nature, a broad, crooked-toothed grin.

Humans often do not act normally when adrenaline is in the picture. And that is precisely why George Daniel extended his arm in the customary greeting to the small, broken-nosed man.

“George,” he said, his breathing still not completely brought back to regularity. The bar in which the two gentlemen were currently sitting on the floor was still thrumming with music. There was the broken glass of shattered beer bottles on the floor. People were filing out the door; it was 3am.

The man with the misfortune of a broken nose gripped George’s hand in his own and nodded. “Matty,” he replied. “Thanks for saving my sorry arse.” George hadn’t really saved Matty’s sorry arse, not in his mind. He had merely helped Matty save his own sorry arse by throwing a couple punches. George Daniel was not a fighter, not in the slightest. In fact, he’d merely gotten lucky when he punched a man only slightly shorter than he and knocked him unconscious. He looked around the bar floor for that man but he was nowhere in sight.

“They left. You should’ve seen it, they had to haul out the brute. Took two men, one grabbing his feet and the other his arms. Huge fuckers, too, it was brilliant,” Matty blabbered, and something about the shine in his eyes made George smile. That’s when he realized he was going to have a wicked shiner within a few hours, if not already.  
“Are you alright?” George asked. Matty shrugged.

“It smarts a bit. I’ll be alright, don’t worry about it, mate,” he answered with a shrug. George crooked an eyebrow and looked questioningly at Matty.

“Oh come _on_ , your nose is bloody _broken_ ,” he stated, the slightest quiver of laughter in his voice.

“Oh, fuck off.” Matty laughed and immediately winced, regretting the action. “Not much we can do about it, though, can we?” George shrugged.

“I could always take you to the A&E,” George offered.

“Right. That might be a good idea,” Matty agreed, trying to stand up with the help of the bar stool nearby. He stumbled and fell right back down, giggling and obviously very drunk.

“Are you alright there, mate?” George honestly had no idea what to do in this situation. Figures.

Matty shushed him and held out his hand in a silent plea for help. George obliged him and pulled him up, and immediately Matty clung onto George’s bicep with a grip that felt like more than was necessary for a couple of strangers in a bar. He passed it off as a side effect of the alcohol and led the tiny man out the door with him.

“So, uh. Matt,” George began, never one for small talk. Or talk at all, for that matter.

“Matty,” Matty corrected, stressing the “y” sound at the end of his name.

“Matty, right, sorry,” George corrected himself, clearing his throat a bit as Matty clung onto his arm and they walked in the general direction of the nearest hospital. “So, uh. Where d’you reckon you’ll need to go after we get you patched up?” George glanced down at Matty and immediately regret washed over him like an ice-cold shower as he watched the smaller individual’s drunken, giggly state seemed to immediately sober up.

“Uh. Well, um. My - my boyfriend’s kicked me out of his place, and so I’ve got nowhere to go, really. My mum won’t like me popping in at this hour, and my dad lives far off, and I’ve not really got any, ah, good friends, so, um…” George nodded and felt the strangest urge to pull the stranger into a hug and assure him everything would be alright.

“Everything’s going to be alright,” he supplied, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “My flatmate wouldn’t like me bringing a guest round at this hour, and she especially doesn’t take kindly to my being drunk, so I assume we’re in this together, huh?” He threw his well-muscled arm around Matty and squeezed his shoulder gingerly.

“I suppose so, then. Hotel? I’ve got a nice little sum of money burning a hole in the banks, and I’m bloody exhausted, not to mention I’ll have a nice little hangover in the morning. I want to rest in style!” He laughed in the way only the most plastered of people laugh, and judging by the way he winced as soon as the sound left his (soft-looking, George might say) lips, he was already starting to feel the effects of the alcohol in his system. Well, that, or his nose was just broken, and because of the way his nose scrunched up when he laughed, that couldn’t feel nice.

“Hotel it is, then. Halfsies, alright? I’m not letting an absolute stranger pay for my stay in a hotel room,” George agreed, because when’s the last time he stayed somewhere nicer than whatever couch he could find to crash on? Sure, he had a flat, but it wasn’t home. It was a place he kept his things, a place where he could sleep without getting tossed on his ass the next morning at some ungodly hour, a place where his flatmate was actually his friend and not just some random, drunken, drug-addled mess of a human. But it wasn’t home. And right here, under the yellow-ish streetlights of this dirty, depressing little Manchester street, George Daniel realized he had never really had a home. He didn’t even know the meaning of the word.

Matty snorted as George listed his conditions for staying with him in a hotel room. “What, are you going to ask for separate beds, too?” he teased, his big, brown eyes glancing up at George, sparkling in the light of the lampposts. “Or - or maybe you’ll ask me if I’m taking you to dinner first!” Matty practically howled with laughter, which made George smile, which aggravated his bruised eye. He didn’t mind. Matty seemed like fun company.

“How about we wait til you’re not drunk off your mind, and then we’ll talk about it?” George retorted, realizing that the statement sounded a little too much like he was asking Matty out. He couldn’t tell if he minded.

“Are you asking me on a date? Oh, George, how romantic! Let’s get a hot air balloon and a bunch of weed. Then we’ll get high together in two senses of the word!”

Matty had a contagious laugh, or maybe it had just been a while since George had something to laugh at. “Come on, Matty. Let’s get you cleaned up,” George said, shaking his head back and forth a little, partially because Matty was fun as hell, mostly because he was having a tough time believing that he and Matty would get along this well in the morning. He pushed open the doors to the A&E, the smell of sterility and death damn near nauseating. He looked over to Matty, who didn’t seem at all offended by the scent.

There weren’t many patrons in the waiting room at this hour; mostly young women with children running high fevers, or the occasional drunken homeless person looking for refuge, or maybe the ever-present unfortunate with a suspiciously broken bone (“I just, like, fell! I wasn’t doin’ anything, or anything, I just tumbled right over!”). George and Matty stumbled over to the check-in (George would have walked more or less properly, but Matty was a bit of a short-arse, and he was drunk, so stumbling seemed like the most efficient thing the duo were capable of), avoiding eye contact with anyone. Matty gave the nurse on duty his name and signed all the paperwork to prove that he was, in fact, Matthew Timothy Healy, residing at 25 Winston Street of Manchester, England, and he did, in fact, need medical attention. It was a bit hard for him to hold the pen given him to sign all this needless paperwork, and his already spidery handwriting was even more illegible. Not like he cared. The nurse thanked him for signing all the dotted lines and took one look at George.

“Boyfriend?” he asked. George looked at the nurse, then back to Matty, then back to the nurse.

“What?” Momentary confusion hit George like a truck. “Oh. Um, no. Not my boyfriend. Haven’t got one, actually.” Was he flirting? The nurse’s glance told him that he was, in fact, flirting. He brushed it off and met the nurse’s eyes again with a look that he hoped was all-business. “I think my friend here has a broken nose. Could we get him checked out, please?” The nurse eyed George with a look that said something very clearly, but George couldn’t distinguish just what he meant by the look.

“Right this way,” he replied after what felt like ten thousand fucking years. Matty was clearly losing his patience.

“Bloody _fuck_ , this _hurts_. Can you stuff me full of meds or something? Or just, I don’t know, re-break my nose like you lot do on _House_?” George bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud, and the nurse looked about ready to have an aneurism. George didn’t believe now was a good time to inform Matty that the reason his nose was in such pain was because he wouldn’t stop touching it; he was cradling it like if he were to let go, it would fall off.

“Yes, sir, we’ll get you something for the pain as soon as possible,” the nurse sighed. George glanced at the name badge hanging from his uniform. Sam. Sam’s having a rough night, George concluded. “Have a seat, I’ll get a doctor with you in a bit.” The general cheeriness that George generally associated with nurses was gone from Sam’s voice, replaced by something akin to annoyance. Matty sat down rather dramatically on the little paper-covered bed-type thing against the wall. The sound of the paper crinkling was evidently hilarious to him; he spent the next solid minute or two crinkling and un-crinkling the crepe paper beneath him, laughing at the sound. He was cute, George mused. Really cute. “Pretty” might even be a better modifier.

After George had a good stare at Matty for the next five or so minutes, a doctor slid open the glass door and greeted them both.

“So what brings you and your boyfriend to the A&E this morning, Mr. Healy?” he asked, and George had half of his sentence out of his mouth before he gave up on correcting the gentleman in front of him.

“Oh, I don’t know, I reckon I like it here at night. Lots of drunks, right? It’s nice,” Matty replied, and although the message was incredibly sarcastic, he spoke almost genuinely. The doctor forced a little half-laugh and went to examine Matty’s nose.

“That’s quite the break there, Matthew. It looks clean, though, so I don’t think we’ll be needing to reset the cartilage anytime soon. I’d just let it heal by itself. Give it a week or so, and keep taking Advil or whatever you’ve got in the cupboard at home, and you’ll be fine.” This guy was obviously very experienced; not only his age gave it away, but the time it took him to diagnose all of this with one look at Matty’s nose damn near amazed George.

“That’s it? Painkillers and ice?” Matty asked, disbelief in his voice. Obviously he was not pleased that this occurrence in his life was not as big a show as he believed it should be.

“Painkillers and ice,” the doctor confirmed. “You’ll be good as new in no time. Oh, and you should probably stop touching it. Otherwise you could push it crooked and we’d never get the time to fix it properly.” Matty looked absolutely horrified by this news and his hands fell into his lap faster than George thought possible.

“As for you, the bruising on your eye should clear up in about a week. If it gets any worse, come back here. It could be a hematoma.” George realized the doctor was speaking to him about midway into his sentence and his head snapped up, half-startled by the sudden change of topic. He’d been in a little state of reverie, thinking about nothing -- except maybe the way Matty’s hair looked really, really soft, like his lips, and the way he looked at George under the streetlights like they’d known each other for years. He was more intrigued than infatuated with the boy, he thought, although he did seem exactly his type. He was honestly quite surprised he’d not considered getting into his pants.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course,” he replied, shaking his head a little to clear his mind. “Will that be it, then?”

“I believe so. You gentlemen have a nice end to your night.” George mumbled a “thank you” and Matty just shrugged. The pair thanked him and walked out of the little room they’d been ushered into, Matty’s hand slipping into George’s as they headed out the door. George’s brow furrowed as he looked down at their hands.

“What? ‘m cold,” Matty mumbled, looking down at the ground as he spoke. He was obviously sobering up, and something about him seemed...sad, in a way that George couldn’t quite explain. “Hurry up, I wanna get a good hotel and there’s no cabs out at this hour.”

Thankfully for them, the hospital was in the middle of town, and hotels were abundant. Not all of them were as grandiose as Matty seemed to require, which George found a bit odd since they’d only stay one night, and they had to walk around for about a half-hour before they found a suitable hotel. Matty’s eyes lit up as he looked up at the brightly lit sign advertising the name -- Hotel Gotham. “Oh, George! Let’s get this one,” he said excitedly, bouncing on his heels. Something in the way he’d spoken to George reminded him vaguely of a little kid looking through the windows of a pet store at a particularly adorable kitten. He couldn’t help but give into the little half-smile tugging at his lips.

Matty waltzed right into the revolving door with the grace of a dancer or some kind of deer, despite his appearance resembling something like that of a baby giraffe. “Georgie, c’mon,” he beckoned, waving his hand towards him as he turned to look at George, who was too busy gawking at the boy in front of him to even attempt walking. He snapped himself out of it long enough to follow Matty into the lobby, and to his own surprise, all the way to the reception desk. He was a bit wrapped up in his own thoughts as Matty got their room and took the key from the concierge; embarrassingly, he only came to when he felt the tiniest tug on the hem of his shirt.

“George, c’mon. I’m sleepy,” Matty whined. George blushed slightly and walked over to the elevator with this half-stranger. They’d met not two hours ago and George was already fascinated. Which, in his opinion, was much more dangerous than simply wanting to fuck him.

Matty leaned into George throughout the relatively short elevator ride, his eyes looking heavy. Dark bruises were painted just below his eyes, from what George perceived to be a combination of his broken nose and exhaustion. It was only then that George noticed the blood still staining the small man’s face.

”Oh, dear lord. You’re covered in blood, Matty,” he sighed. He felt some odd kind of protectiveness over Matty; he couldn’t in a million years tell you why that was. The elevator doors slid open with a soft dinging sound. “Which room are we in?” he asked, a little more concern in his voice than he’d like.

“Uh, 310,” Matty answered, following behind the now-alert George as he was pulled in the direction of their room. George took the key card from Matty’s small, soft hand and swiped it in the door before pushing it open and pulling Matty in behind him, immediately walking into the bathroom. He flicked on the light and looked over at Matty, who was still in the doorway, looking like a tired, pouty child.

“Well, get in here, then,” George called out to him. Matty arched his eyebrows at George. 

“Don’t usually consider the loo to be a two-person room,” he said a little smartly. George rolled his eyes and went to grab a washcloth from the stack of towels near the bath.

“Oh, shut up. Let me help you get the blood off your face,” he replied curtly. Matty huffed but obliged anyway, pulling himself up to sit on the sink counter as George ran the white cloth underneath the warm water.

“Hope they don’t ask questions,” George muttered under his breath as he set to dabbing the blood from Matty’s chin. “Tell me if it hurts, alright?” Matty nodded and closed his eyes as George set to work. He was so gentle with him; he was confused, but he didn’t want to question it.

“Ow,” Matty breathed, his breath hissing between his teeth as George pressed a little too hard on a particularly sensitive area, right below his nose.

“Sorry.” George met Matty’s eyes for a second before dropping his gaze to become very focused on the task at hand. Truthfully, he couldn’t bear to make eye contact with Matty for longer than 15 seconds, because something about Matty made him feel very imperfect, but not in a way that George would consider insecure.

“S’okay.” The space around them was dead silent; not even the traffic outside was audible. Nothing about it was uncomfortable, however. Moments passed as George carefully, cautiously cleaned the blood from Matty’s porcelain face, the towel turning crimson on one corner as he worked.

“There we go. All freshened up.” George’s voice was practically a whisper; he didn’t want to disrupt the lovely silence between them. Breaking his own unspoken rule, he looked into Matty’s eyes for much longer than fifteen seconds; neither of them wanted to break away. Matty, much like George, found some odd sort of solace in the other’s eyes. After about a minute, George cleared his throat. “Bed, then? You look exhausted.” Matty simply nodded and hopped off the counter before stripping down to his black boxer-briefs, his pale torso contrasting--quite beautifully, George might add--with the color of the fabric. Wordlessly, Matty crawled into the bed closest to the window. George was a little grateful Matty had booked a room with two queen beds.

“Night, Georgie,” Matty yawned, turning over to look out the window. George nodded and stripped down similarly to Matty and sank down into the plush bedsheets of his own bed. “Goodnight, Matty,” he replied, turning off the lamp between the beds.

Not twenty minutes later, George started awake from the comfortable half-sleep he’d drifted into. The culprit was the softest-sounding call of his own name, coming from the direction of Matty’s bed.

“Matty?” he asked, his voice groggy and laced with the want of sleep. He sat up and ran his hand through his hair, looking over to where he’d heard the sound. He was greeted with the sight of Matty’s eyes, illuminated by the bright street lights visible from the window.

“I’m cold.” The wordless request nearly went straight over George’s head. After approximately thirty seconds of wondering why the hell Matty would wake him simply to inform him of this fact, he stumbled out of his bed and into Matty’s.

“Do you want me to--” George began, but before he could finish his sentence, Matty had picked up George’s muscular arms and wrapped them around his tiny frame, pressing his back against George’s chest. Christ, Matty was thin. George could feel the individual knots of Matty’s spine against him, even more so with every breath he took.

“Thank you,” Matty murmured. George nodded, his eyes already slipping closed. Once again, he was jarred from the in-between state by the sound of Matty’s voice, this time accompanied by the feeling of the small body twisting around to face him.

“I mean it. For helping me not get myself killed, for taking me to the A&E, for staying in this hotel with me. And for cleaning up my face.” Even in the dark, George could tell Matty was blushing, the slightest, most endearing shade of pink. “Thanks for, like. Caring so much.” Much to George’s surprise, he felt Matty’s lips on his cheek, and as soon as the action had occurred, Matty was turned back to facing the window again. “Goodnight, for real this time.”

“Goodnight, Matty,” George replied, the feeling of Matty’s kiss lingering on his skin as he drifted off to sleep for the third and final time that night, the softest smile on his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are a few transphobic slurs throughout the end of this chapter.

George was honest to god the last person you’d expect to wake up early. Which is precisely why he didn’t wake until about 2:30pm the next afternoon; in all honesty, he would have slept much later if Matty hadn’t left the blinds open the previous night. Now, the bright afternoon sun poured in through the window, illuminating the little dust motes floating around in the hotel room atmosphere, and George’s eyes opened slowly to take in the surrounding peace.

Or rather, it would have been peaceful if he knew where the hell he was.

The confusion only lasted about half a minute as last night’s memories filtered in, still fuzzy and vague, but enough to give him a shape of things. The sight of his favorite hoodie on the floor, right next to his most treasured fifteen-year-old t-shirt and his halfway destroyed jeans, was enough to give him the general outline of where he was. The headache throbbing behind his eyes and against his temples told him precisely how drunk he’d gotten, and the small, dark-haired man in his arms told him just a bit about how he’d gotten into this situation. Carefully, so as not to wake Matty, George slipped his arms out from under him and slowly left the warmth of their shared bed. Part of George hoped he and Matty would have more than just the previous night together, and the other part was screaming at him, reminding him that someone was at home, undoubtedly worried sick over him, although to be fair, she should have gotten used to George not coming home without so much as a text. 

He shrugged off his own nagging mind as he collected his discarded clothing from the floor and walked softly into the bathroom, closing the door as quietly as possible. It was a lot heavier than he’d bargained for, and the lock clicked into place with a solid thudding noise. George winced at the sound and opened the door once again to ensure the sound hadn’t woken Matty, but he seemed absolutely unfazed. George sighed in relief and made certain the incident wouldn’t repeat itself. 

With the door shut ever-so-carefully, George was left alone in the silent, un-lived-in bathroom, and finally given time to recap last night. He glanced at himself in the wall mirror and ran a hand through his hair, mentally making a list of verb phrases that had made an appearance. He’d helped a stranger in a bar fight--that wasn’t so bad. He was in one piece, and the only casualty suffered was a minorly broken nose that would heal on its own. That’s all that really happened, right? No big deal. So what if he’d ended up spending the night with the victim? It wasn’t like they’d had sex or anything. That in itself wasn’t an unfamiliar scenario with George, however, but this little piece of logic was far more than unnecessary in George’s thought process. He’d just, well. He’d just accepted a stranger’s offer to stay in a posh hotel. Where was the harm in that?

George was beginning to see little holes in his own logic, so in response, he turned the shower faucet all the way left. Little rivulets of steam rolled off the water as it cascaded down into the spotless linoleum floor below it, warm and inviting. George yawned and stripped down completely before stepping into the stream, feeling his muscles relax and his mind settle on a gentle, numb hum. The shower felt almost identical to his own back at the flat, and it was easy enough to forget the present situation under the water.

Thirty, maybe forty-five minutes had passed before George realized he wasn’t, in fact, in his own home, but that he was still in this ridiculously expensive hotel where a stranger was just a wall away. Scoldingly, he reminded himself that the stranger had a name, even if he couldn’t exactly recall what that name was. It started with an “M”, but lingered on the edge of his mind. Begrudgingly, George removed himself from the comfort of the shower, and pulled a fluffy towel off the rack next to him.

It was at this moment he noticed the still-damp, still-bloodied cloth on the sink counter. As though someone had just opened the gates of a horse race, the memory of last night flooded George’s mind; every emotion, every action, every word said between the two. Albeit, it was all a little alcohol-muddled, but crystalline just the same; the way he’d felt like he didn’t have to be alone with Matty--funny how his name just seemed to take place in his mind like it belonged there when minutes ago it had escaped him in the most annoying way--how well the pair had gotten along, like old friends, right down to the goddamn scent of the hospital. He shook his head and returned his attention to the much larger towel in his hand and his own dripping body. 

Once he’d gotten himself dry, he redressed in last night’s clothes, trying not to think about how they weren’t clean; after all, he’d be home in a matter of time, and hopefully his flatmate had done laundry the previous night. It was her turn, after all. Toweling off his hair for the final time, George pushed open the door and stepped out into the suite, looking around the dividing wall to see if Matty had woken yet. 

It should not have pleased George as much as it did to see Matty sitting cross-legged on the bed in George’s hoodie. It should not have pleased him at all--it was his favorite hoodie, one he’d gotten on a trip to New York City three years ago. The design was peeling away, and the once-black fabric was faded to a peculiar shade of navy blue. But for whatever reason and against all odds, it made his chest warm, something he’d not experienced in a while.

“Morning,” Matty greeted him, his eyes not fully open yet and his voice laced with tiredness. He held a paper cup of tea in both his hands, the steam rising gently into the air and painting a certain aesthetic that George found captivating. 

“Morning,” George replied. “You’re wearing my hoodie.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit snug, don’t you think?” Matty replied dryly, looking up at George, who couldn’t really keep his laugh behind his lips. 

“Just a tad. You can keep it, if you want. Your shirt’s got blood on it.” The words tumbled past George’s lips before his mind could veto them, much to his own surprise.

“Thanks. I don’t think I’d have given it back anyway, if we’re being honest. It’s cozy.”

George hadn’t noticed Matty’s trousers still on the floor until about thirty seconds before he’d spoken. He found it endearing that he wasn’t so modest that he’d want to be fully dressed in the presence of a stranger--could you still be considered strangers if you’d held each other? George brushed off the question with the excuse that he’d consider it again later, when he had caffeine in his system.

“Right. Well, I’ll see you around, Matty. I’ve got to get back home so Gem doesn’t lose her wig again.” George hadn’t thought of Gemma’s name in well over 72 hours, much less said it aloud, and the word felt strange and foreign on his tongue. “It was nice meeting you, though. I figure this should about cover half of whatever the hotel bill is, yeah?” He placed two crisp £100 notes on the dresser.

Matty nodded and took a drink of his tea before speaking. “See you round, Georgie,” he replied. “I think I’ll stay another night. I like the view.”

“It’s nice,” George agreed. He didn’t really know how to say goodbye without sounding awkward. “Laters, then.” He decided that wasn’t too cringe-worthy and started out the door, but Matty’s voice caught him before he could properly make it to the hall.

“Georgie! Aren’t you going to give me your number?” he whined, and George, suddenly feeling like the rudest fuck in the world, halfway bolted back into the room.

“Oh, of course. Um.” He scrambled for a pen and the pad of paper on the dresser. He scribbled out the sequence of digits that was nearly synonymous with his entire identity, praying it was legible. “Uhm, there you are. If you ring me, or something, and my flatmate picks up, don’t believe anything she tells you,” he concluded, setting the pen down. “I’ll be going.” Finally, finally, he was able to vacate the suite, leaving Matty alone on the bed in his (favorite) hoodie, feeling a little more than awkward. He all but ran out of the hotel, hailing a cab as quickly as possible.

Matty, on the other hand, thought George was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. Adorable as in the adjective one would use to describe a puppy in a shelter window, of course. He seemed like such a gentleman, and he was so generous--Matty had the money and the hoodie to prove it. Still, there was something about him that made Matty want to dial up the number on the napkin as soon as he watched from the enormous hotel window George crawling into the back of a cab. He settled the internal argument by agreeing with himself to wait at least four hours before ringing him.

* * *

“Jesus Christ, Daniel, where the hell have you been?” George’s flatmate wasn’t exactly the most considerate person in the world when it came to potential hangovers. George winced at the sound of her voice.

“Gem, I’ve just stepped inside the flat, give me a minute or seventy before you start scolding me like my mother,” George half-whined, heading over to the kitchen and pouring himself a full mug of black coffee. The promise of caffeine and the smell of warmth was damn near euphoric.

Gemma rolled her eyes and allowed George a moment of silence as he sipped his coffee. “So, are you going to answer me or just stand there and attempt to dissipate your headache?”

Gemma Janes had known George for years. They’d grown up next to each other, and while Gemma had attended a different school, she was often over at George’s as his tutor. They had the kind of relationship where Gemma, despite being four months younger, was the closest thing to authority that George actually still respected.

“Well, mum,” George began, which earned a very ostentatious eye roll from Gemma. “I rescued an innocent from a bar fight. He broke his nose, and then he bought a hotel room for the night and I stayed with him,” he informed her. Upon second examination, he could have worded everything a little more innocuously, and a slightly embarrassed wince crossed his face. 

“Glad to hear someone’s getting to have some fun around here. You know what I did while you were gone, Georgie?” Oh, no. He knew he was in for a stern lecture. “I washed the dishes! And I did the laundry, and fed the cats, and cooked enough for two.” There it was. The guilt trip. To anyone else, it wouldn’t have been such an issue, but George loved Gemma--she was his best friend. “I didn’t need to cook for two, though. Because you never showed up, and I was worried sick that you’d been shot up in some gang activity or drug den.”

“Gem, that was once,” George amended. So he’d accidentally stumbled into a drug den once, no big deal. Except, it was, to Gemma. Everything was a big deal to her. George knew it was all in his best interest, but still, she could get a little overbearing. He was grateful for her all the same. Because, honestly, he might not be here if it wasn’t for her.

After a few more slightly guilt-trippy comments, and George’s profuse apologies, he managed to weasel his way into letting Gemma allow him to spend another night on the town without much nagging and mother-henning. George tried to tell himself it was because he was bored. But he knew the real reason. Those big, dark eyes, that pouty mouth, the curls that seemed to rest with a mind of their own.... 

On the other side of the city, Matthew Healy had, admittedly, unintelligently returned to the same bar where he had broken his nose. It’s not like he had much choice; his boyfriend did security, and oftentimes the owner of the bar would let him play his guitar on stage for tips. Not that he needed them, necessarily, but he liked to fund at least a little of his own Gucci habit. 

Alex Turner did not look formidable. He was a little too skinny to be scary. His tattoos and the constant swirl of cigarette smoke curling around the rim of his black sunglasses were his only saving grace. That, and he had the mouth of a sailor, especially on the occasions when a drunken fan would catcall Matty from the stage. When his voice rose, the fear in the room was goddamn palatable. It tasted like alcohol and sweat and uncertainty. And lots of regret.

“What the fuck, Matty?” This was Alex. His voice dripped with his heavy, sometimes even sultry accent, the words coming from his lips with just the tiniest traces of disbelief mingled with malice. “Four months and you never thought to tell me?” Presently, the two were standing face to face in the alley between the pub and some arbitrary restaurant, or maybe it was a sex shop, but that doesn’t matter. What matters here are the tears staining Matty’s cheeks and Alex’s fingers combing furiously through his dark hair.

“Four bloody months and you didn’t once think to tell me you’re a fucking _tranny_ ,” he half-shouted, and the tears only ran faster down Matty’s face, his chest feeling heavy with something far weightier than any betrayal.

“I - I’m sorry, Alex,” he choked out, truly wanting to sink to the dirty ground beneath him. Nothing felt more welcoming to him than the embrace of nothingness. Even death seemed like a favourable option now. “I didn’t think-”

“ _Of course_ you didn’t think, Matty. You never bloody do,” Alex spat back, turning to face away from the boy and focusing on the traffic running perpendicular to the alley. “Is that even your real name? Matty?” He wasn’t even attempting to mask the harshness in his voice. A humourless laugh left the lips from which Matty had previously only heard words of love and support. Funny how something like genitals could change someone’s entire opinion about you. 

Matty could only stand in stunned silence as his boyfriend seethed with anger just meters in front of him. “I’m sorry.” His voice was hushed, defeated. His words were weighed down with every emotion he didn’t want to feel.

“Christ, Matty. I don’t think ‘sorry’ is going to give me back those four months,” Alex spat back. Matty couldn’t quite wrap his mind around this. Had Alex only been with him the whole time for nothing other than sex?

“I would hit you. But I don’t hit girls.”

This was it. The last of what Matty could take. He was small, there was no denying it, but he had grown up learning how to fight for himself. The perks of growing up in Manchester.

The first punch was clumsy, Matty’s lankiness always throwing him off, but it connected squarely with Alex’s jaw. It wasn’t enough to leave a bruise, but enough to disorient him, which was all Matty needed.

“I’m _not_ a girl,” he spat, his eyes dark with anger. He blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over, not wanting to let Alex see him so vulnerable. Which, really, was a bit ironic, because formerly Alex was the only one Matty dared to show that side of himself to. Alex held the spot where Matty’s fist had connected, rubbing it a little. 

“Is this why you wouldn’t have sex with me?” he laughed bitterly. “Because I would figure you out?” He shook his head in that disbelieving way that made everyone who did it look like a total fucking douchebag. “I can’t believe you.”

“ _You_ can’t believe _me_?” Matty asked, incredulous. “You’re leaving me because I don’t fucking have a dick!”

“I never said I was leaving,” Alex said quietly. Matty went silent as well. After a moment, he swallowed hard, his thoughts lingering in the air and in his mind.

“Maybe that would be the best thing for you to do.” He had never broken up with someone before, and he never thought he would have to with Alex, but the broken trust and betrayal were too strong to ignore. He couldn’t continue on like this.

Alex rolled his eyes and started to walk away. “Good luck finding someone willing to fuck a tranny like you,” he spat. 

Alex hadn’t expected to run into the flat, muscled torso of a man who was easily as tall as one of the lampposts on the busy city street before them. He also didn’t expect the same man to look at Matty with a tiny glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

“What did you just call him?” George Daniel, in his six-foot-five glory, with his toned biceps and his broad shoulders, asked the man before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone in this work is depicted fictitiously. i don't believe alex turner to be a transphobe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this some sin. if you've got any sort of genital dysphoria, tread lightly. not much happens here, but i'll put a summary at the end in case you want to skip this one.

Alex Turner was not, as the locals put it, intelligent. “A tranny,” he said indignantly. “I called him a tranny.” Admittedly, his voice was shaking slightly, but Alex figured it could easily be deduced as something more intense than the fear that filled his throat at the sight of the giant before him. George bit down, his teeth gnashing together to keep himself from immediately swinging at him.

“I’m going to tell you once,” he began. “Go home. Leave Matty alone, and nothing more than this will happen.” George had always sort of prided himself on being the token gentle giant, but he was already fiercely protective of Matty. He didn’t want to question the semantics of his attachment, and nor did now seem like the appropriate time for a conference call with all his thoughts.

Alex, once more flaunting his lack of brain cells, decided that a swing would be more effective than a word. His fist collided with George’s jaw, in a funny kind of replay of Matty’s earlier gesture. Perhaps this was some twisted form of pessimistic karma. George had expected his assailant to be a little more dignified, which naturally meant he _hadn’t_ expected to be punched in the jaw, and this led him to stumble backwards, otherwise unfazed.

“Right, so, we’re taking this route to solve our problems,” George mumbled, rubbing his jaw. “Leave, please, I don’t think Matty quite appreciates your company here,” he continued, decidedly going against his former statement; perhaps Alex just hadn’t heard him properly? Surely ‘go home’ didn’t sound much like ‘punch me in the face’, but not everyone was blessed with proper aural comprehension.

“Why should I listen to you? You’re sticking up for a prudish tranny you don’t even know,” Alex spat back, and George’s eyes flickered over to Matty, who was looking at the ground in something George could only decipher as shame, or maybe embarrassment.

George Daniel, who was not an angry person and often considered himself quite the pacifist, swung at Alex Turner. Seeing Matty looking so downtrodden and defeated sparked a very indescribable feeling of protectiveness in our protagonist, a feeling George put on the back burner to decipher later, when he wasn’t beating the shit out of a man he had never previously seen before. After his fist had disconnected with the other party’s face, George assessed the damage done, and, in yet another odd twist of fate, recognized the signs of a broken nose, which Matty had displayed the night previous. Blood gushed from Alex’s nostrils and dripped onto his white tshirt and leather jacket, a few renegade droplets hitting the pavement beneath, and when his eyes met George’s, they were filled with a mixture of surprise and rage. He went after him again, and George, having the advantage of height over his assailant, simply dodged the blow and returned another to the shorter man’s chest. Maybe he was fighting dirty, but the goal here was to get Matty to safety and away from Alex, not for George to win in a fair way. Reeling from the blow and trying to catch his breath after having the wind knocked out of him, Alex stood back, his hand on the wounded spot, his chin tucked to his chest but his eyes still glancing up at George.

“You fucking prick.” George laughed at the irony of the insult being directed towards him rather than towards the speaker himself.

“Speak for yourself,” he retorted. “Are you going to make the intelligent decision to fuck all the way off, or do you want to end tonight in the A&E?” he asked, shooting a glance in Matty’s direction to ensure that was still okay, although George hadn’t seen him do much else than watch the fight wide-eyed and frozen. “I’ll even do you the kindness as to call a cab.”

Alex was, quite literally, speechless, but not only due to the lack of air in his lungs. With whatever pride he was able to scrape up after that pathetic fight he put up, he turned away rather unceremoniously and, as a last display of defiance, raised the middle finger of his right hand in the universal gesture of “you win”.

“If I ever see you near him again, you’re a dead man,” George called after him, the protectiveness still lingering on his tongue and in his mind. Once Alex was out of sight, the victor rushed over to Matty, looking him up and down.

“You alright?” he asked, not touching him despite wanting to, very badly.

“Y-yeah. Thanks. That was kind of impressive.” Matty had to look almost directly skywards to meet George’s eyes. He was kind of into it.

“‘Kind of’,” George mocked, slight laughter in his voice. “You know, I would have gone harder on him if he wasn’t so shrimpy. He looks like a noodle,” he continued, in good humour.

“Yeah, totally,” Matty agreed, a teasing sort of lilt to his tone, already shaking off the initial shock of the run in.

After a moment of stillness, George cleared his throat and began again. “So, um. You’ve been staying in that posh hotel, haven’t you.” It wasn’t really a question, but rather the preface to something else George had on his mind. Matty just nodded. The hotel was nice, but he missed having someone else with him, and frankly, ever since last night, Matty had missed cuddling up to George. Naturally, he passed it off as loneliness and desperation to sleep beside anyone. Who wouldn’t feel like that when their boyfriend had just kicked them out of their home?

“Right. Well, ah. I’ve got a place you can stay. I - I mean, it’s not very posh, but…” He had to think over his next sentence several time so no mixed messages would come through. “But my roommate, Gem, she’s a great cook, and the beds are soft. You can stay in mine and I’ll take the couch; it’s been a dear friend of mine for a while. You know, hangovers…” He knew he was rambling, and the sight of Matty’s big, dark eyes looking up at him inquisitively was enough to shut him up. He cleared his throat once more. “It’s free, too. I imagine that hotel can get pretty expensive.”

Matty just nodded, not quite knowing how to accept this much kindness from an almost-stranger. “I - I think I’d like that. Thank you.” For once in his life he was rendered quiet, his voice hushed and shy, George’s kindness knocking the usual, almost arrogant confidence right out of him.

“Um. I’ll have to stop by the hotel, of course. Checkout and all that business.” He didn’t want to admit that he had left George’s hoodie in the room and that it was the first reason he had thought of for going back to the hotel. It smelled nice. George had good taste in cologne.

“Of course, of course. While you’re getting everything in order I’ll call Gem and let her know you’re staying with us,” George replied. “I’ll, uh, I’ll get us a cab back to the hotel.” Matty nodded at the sentiment, the events of the night replaying in his mind over and over again. He never would have expected Alex to turn on him like that. He couldn’t help but think that maybe it was all because he hadn’t agreed to sleep with him. The guilt was already starting to eat away at him; he’d thrown away his happiest relationship in years because of something as trivial as sex.

He must have completely blanked for the moment it took George to get them a cab, because the next thing he knew, he was sitting beside George on the cracked leather interior bench seat, a dark-haired man behind the wheel of the vehicle.

“Matty,” George spoke softly, trying to gain the attention of the boy next to him. His hand moved to rest on his thigh, and out of instinct, he nearly pushed it away, but for some reason this stranger’s hand was more comforting than his own boyfriend’s touch had ever been.

“It’s not your fault,” he supplied, and to Matty’s conjecture, he could suppose he was having a tough time concealing his thoughts from his expression. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You existed. You trusted someone who wasn’t deserving of your trust. As far as I can tell, you’re innocent of anything he would accuse of you.” His voice was soft, partially out of sympathy, mostly to keep the conversation out of earshot of the cabbie. Matty nodded; he didn’t want to speak in fear of his voice breaking, or worse, becoming thick with the tears that threatened to spill. He resolved him to save his crying jag for that night, when he could hopefully be alone.

Matty glanced down at George’s hand on his knee and placed his own on top, the warmth from his skin radiating into his own frigid one. He hoped George would take his gesture as a means of silent thanks, which, upon noticing George’s slight, caring smile, the message was received without error. The cab pulled in front of the lobby, and Matty dashed out quickly, wanting to get back to George’s as soon as he could. Not because he wanted George to, ehm, never mind. The thought within itself was preposterous. George even said he would sleep on the sofa that night.

As Matty hurried himself into the looming building, George stepped out of the cab and took his cell from his pocket, telling the driver to wait on them before closing the door and dialing Gemma.

“You _what_?” Gemma didn’t seem pleased with hearing of George’s Good Samaritan deed. George winced at the sound of her voice carrying a little too much over the receiver.

“Gem, you would be doing the same thing if you were in the situation,” George chided. “Remember when Katie stayed with us for the week?”

She fell silent on the other end. “Fine, fine. He can stay. But if he ends up a permanent fixture in our tiny flat you’re going to be the one getting kicked out.” George could always count on Gemma’s big heart; she loved to be firm with him, almost motherly, but he knew her sense of compassion outweighed whatever sense of harshness resided in her heart. After assuring his flatmate that he understood the consequences of his impromptu guest, he bid her goodbye and hung up, just in time to see Matty exiting the hotel doors with George’s sweatshirt in his arms.

After going through the semantics of checkout and retrieving all his belongings from the hotel room, Matty looked out the window one last time and thought about how nice it had been to feel George’s arms around him as he slept, how warm it was to finally sleep next to someone again. He sighed and, with the sweatshirt in his arms, made his way back into the elevator, briefly thinking about how gently George had cleaned the blood from his nose and how much he seemed to care about him despite him only being a stranger, nothing more.

Matty had seemed to be going into autopilot a lot today; in the middle of thinking about his bloodied nose (which still fucking hurt, by the way), he’d walked himself into the elevator and pressed the necessary button and had made it halfway through the lobby before snapping out of his reverie. A little half-dazed from all the emotions he’d felt that day, he walked out of the wide, gilded double-doors and out onto the patio, where George and the cab were waiting for him. George was having a cigarette and, illuminated by the yellowish streetlight, he looked unreal, almost ethereal.

George offered him a drag of his cigarette, which Matty took gratefully, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before letting it curl from his lips slowly. George eyed the sweatshirt in Matty’s arms fondly, which didn’t go unnoticed.

“D’you, erm, want it back?” he asked shyly, not wanting to give it up, but wanting to be polite.

“Keep it, I’ve got loads,” George replied, shaking his head and dropping the fag into the disposal bin beside the door, stubbing it out until only one tiny, fading ember glowed from the tip. He opened the door for Matty and followed in after him, the night seeming still and maybe a little too quiet for this part of town.

The drive back to the flat was a quiet one, but George replaced his hand onto Matty’s knee about halfway through the drive, and Matty didn’t think twice about it this time. It was dark, probably close to midnight, and most people were either in bars at this time or already in their beds, so the streets weren’t as crowded as they had once been at the start of the evening. Matty was just thankful they didn’t run into Alex again.

Matty snuck shy glances over at George, watching the soft glowing lights pass over his face like waves as the car drove on in the direction of George’s place, thinking to himself about how impossibly kind the boy beside him was; in just twenty four hours he had taken him to the hospital to get his nose fixed up, stayed with his drunk ass all night, given him his own personal article of clothing, and potentially broke the nose of Matty’s asshole ex boyfriend. He was quite beautiful too, as Matty was noticing in the wash of the traffic lights.

Both boys were in their own quiet minds, thinking of each other in the stillness of the warm summer night. Matty, of course, of George’s kindness and beauty, and George of Matty’s soft nature; he had noticed that while he was little, he acted as though he were even bigger than George himself, but when he really wanted to feel something, he shrank back down to his size. He figured Matty had a sensitive soul, and a lovely one at that.

The cab pulled in front of the complex wherein existed George and Gemma’s flat, and once the cabbie had been properly compensated, the pair in the backseat shuffled out. It was only now that Matty realized he had been leaning against George, his head on his broad shoulder, and immediately was seized with embarrassment. ‘

“S-sorry,” he stammered. “It’s, erm, been a long day, my emotions are kind of all over the place,” he amended. George just laughed.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied. “Your hair smells nice. Like hotel shampoo,” he teased, guiding Matty up the stairs and into the door of the dimly-lit sitting room, where the smell of black tea and the sound of a knife rhythmically chopping something against a cutting board filled the small, admittedly cosy house. Matty followed timidly after George, looking around at the decor of the room and clutching the small bag of his belongings from the hotel gift shop and George’s hoodie in his hands.

“Gem, we’re here,” George announced, and a second after the chopping sound stopped, a very tall and equally thin girl stepped out of the kitchen. Her hair was a dirty shade of blonde and pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head, and her large, blue eyes made her look otherworldly. Matty was captivated.

She greeted him with a toothy smile, her large, red lips looking terribly maternal and welcoming. And Matty’s fascination only grew. George took the few things Matty had carried inside and let him get acquainted with his flatmate.

“Hello!” she welcomed warmly, wrapping Matty in a tight hug, a gesture he hadn’t expected. “I’m Gemma, but I suspect George already told you about me.” Matty shook his head a little.

“Not at all actually.” He glanced over at George, who was blushing, and smiled. “I’m Matty. It’s a pleasure,” he replied warmly, already taking to Gemma.

“How rude of you,” she scolded George. “I’ve just put the kettle on, Matty, care for a cup? It’s nothing fancy, a little English breakfast.”

Matty nodded. “Yes, please,” he answered, biting his lip a little at how nice they both seemed. It was like he had stepped out of Manchester and into something out of an Austen novel. Gemma poured him a bit of the tea into a white ceramic coffee cup and asked him how much sugar he took in his tea. Once she had stirred it all in, she handed him the steaming mug, which Matty’s cold hands wrapped around gratefully. “Thanks, Gem.” Gemma nodded and poured herself a cup.

“You must be starving,” Gemma noticed. “I’ll call for takeout, if you like. What do you like?” Matty didn’t want to extend their kindness any further, so he spoke the first thing that came to mind.

“Oh, I, ah, already ate,” he lied. He had a feeling they could see right through him. They didn’t seem to question it, though, so he relaxed for the moment.

“Follow me, I’ll show you around the place,” George offered, and Matty turned and let George guide him down the halls. Matty absentmindedly traced his fingertips along the walls of the hallway as he walked, his other hand still wrapped tightly around the tea.

“It’s fairly small, so there’s not much to show,” George admitted with a little shrug. Once he’d shown Matty the bathroom and both his and Gemma’s bedrooms, Matty wandered back into George’s space, looking around at everything: the posters of old bands from the 70’s, records strewn about, a chair piled high with unfolded clothes. It was exactly like any other bedroom Matty had seen, but somehow, this one was impossibly unique to George.

George stood in the doorway and, when he noticed Matty gently leafing through the vinyls, he walked back over to join him, sitting cross legged beside the boy. “I put your things from the hotel in the bathroom. Here’s my sweatshirt, though. It gets kind of cold at night and I figured you might want it.” Matty looked up at George from where he sat with his long, slender legs extended across the cool hardwood floor. “Thank you,” he replied, taking the faded black lump of fabric from George’s hands and slipping it on over his Durex tshirt. “You have really good taste,” he continued, in reference to the albums. George looked like he was on the verge of blushing. “Prince, Queen, Bowie…” Matty mindlessly listed off his favorites as George watched silently.

“This one’s my favorite,” George began, pulling out a Beatles album with the same amount of care one would use to pick up a newborn bunny. “It was my dad’s.”

Matty felt a lump in his throat. “That was Alex’s favorite album. We had our first kiss listening to it,” he admitted, his eyes glassy now that his emotions were accompanied by the late night.

It was here that George pushed aside whatever boundaries he had placed himself and wrapped his arms around Matty’s slender frame, ultimately pulling him into his lap. Not that it was hard; Matty was small as hell, and he just sort of fit there perfectly. He didn’t seem to mind, either; the second he was laid in George’s lap, his head rested against his chest, and a tear or two slipped down his ivory cheek. “Sorry. This is stupid. He was a cunt to me.” Matty shook his head and George pushed his curls back from his face, gently wiping away his tears from his damp cheeks.

“It’s not stupid, Matty. You’re grieving.” George placed his hand on Matty’s back and held him for a moment, knowing that’s what he needed. Matty sank further against George’s torso and let his head rest in the crook of his neck, more tears spilling from his eyes.

“ _Grieving_? He’s not _dead _, George,” Matty replied, something like an attitude in his voice. This didn’t faze George.  
__

“Well, maybe not, but he’s gone, you know? Grieving isn’t always about mourning a death, love.” Matty went silent. He hadn’t thought of it like that before. He supposed he was grieving, actually, under George’s criteria.

Matty had gone from teary-eyed to pouty in a matter of seconds. He didn’t want this to be George’s lasting impression of him, though, so he buried his face in George’s tshirt. “Thankyouforbeingsokindtome,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the fact that he hadn’t paused to punctuate and by the fabric covering his mouth. George understood, though. He was good at that sort of thing. He ruffled Matty’s ebony curls but didn’t say anything in reply; he felt as though Matty would rather let the words hang in the air than go noticed.

The pair sat in silence for a while, letting the night’s events process in their minds. Matty’s brain felt like it might overheat with all the thoughts racing within it; he wanted to thank George with more than just words, but the only way he could reckon how to do that was...more friendly than he figured George wanted to be.

George, on the other hand, was occupied with the thought of Matty and everything they had experienced in just over forty-eight hours. The bloody nose, the night they spent together, the entirety of the Alex debacle….not one detail escaped George’s memory. But another thing on his mind was how _pretty_ this boy was, and how soft his lips looked, and how small he had seemed while wearing George’s hoodie. He wouldn’t mind kissing him. The thought took residence for a little less than half a second before George evicted it, a little surprised at his own subconscious.

Matty, however, was entertaining the very same thought. However, Matty was more adventurous, and more prone to throwing caution to the wind, than George habitually was. After turning the thought over and over in his mind, he looked up at his savior and blinked, not one thought of any possible repercussions. “Can I -”

“Yes,” George answered, definitely too quickly, and before he could berate himself for his eager reply, Matty’s lips were on his, just as soft as he had figured.

The kiss was short-lived, if one could even call it a kiss. Neither of them were left satisfied, and the silence between them both was more than enough to convey this. George, despite fretting over the still-open bedroom door, cupped Matty’s cheeks in his hands and leaned forward to kiss him again, praying that this one would be a proper kiss. Matty seemed to have a similar idea as he draped his arms around George’s neck.

The kiss lasted until they both desperately needed to break for air, and once George had come down from the high that he had found himself encapsulated in, he noticed how beautifully red and slightly swollen Matty’s lips had become. Gently, as though with the slightest roughness he might break the boy in front of him, George tucked a single curl behind Matty’s ear, studying his features in the soft light that poured into the room from a solitary lamp in the corner. “Was that -”

“It was more than okay,” Matty answered, a slight brush creeping into his otherwise pale cheeks. “In fact I don’t think I’d mind if you did it again,” he replied in that cheeky manner he always carried in his tone. George rolled his eyes and (gently) pushed Matty off his lap for a second, only to be met with a slightly hurt gaze from the boy on the floor.

“What? I’m closing the door, wanker.” George pulled the handle inwards so they were completely alone in the room, and without any hesitation he returned to Matty, took his hand, and pulled him up to standing. “The bed’s more comfortable,” he iterated, only realizing what implications the sentence could have held .05 seconds after he had spoken. “I - I mean, we don’t have to - “

Matty was already perched in the center of George’s large bed before his clarification had even stumbled past his lips; he hadn’t caught the double entendre of George’s words either, at least not until George had caught it himself. Matty just shrugged.

“They say the best way to get over someone is to shag someone else,” he said, a little coyly.

Matty was, in no way, promiscuous; he may as well be a virgin, honestly. The last time he had done anything remotely sexual was in high school, and that was before he was, well, out to anyone. He hadn’t gone to the proverbial “home base” or whatever the analogy was, but he had given a couple lazy handjobs in the back of his car and even a messy blowjob on one occasion. He was trying not to think of the latter, because that “one occasion” had, unfortunately, been Alex.

George was honestly a little taken aback by Matty’s indifference to the subject, but not objective to the idea. He was already very taken with Matty, and sex to him wasn’t some sacred rite that should be reserved for couples or whatever. He’d done it with plenty of strangers he had met in bars. But something nagged at his mind, something that said Matty was more than just a stranger George had taken home, even if that was what he was in a literal sense.

“Come here and kiss me,” Matty pouted, having decided George had neglected him for too long. With another roll of his eyes George met Matty on his bed and gave him a quick, tiny kiss on his lips.

“There. Satisfied?” he asked cheekily, knowing exactly what Matty’s reaction would be. Matty huffed and pulled George in for a kiss himself, taking the lead and pressing his lips almost hungrily to George’s. This time there was no awkwardness; it was just like breathing, Matty thought, and nothing felt as forced as it ever had with Alex. But then again, nothing had ever quite felt right with him. Matty resolved himself to shut his thought up and let himself get enveloped in the kiss, his hands tangling in the back of George’s short hair. George was already way ahead of him: his hands had been resting on Matty’s hips since their lips had first connected.

Almost without thinking, Matty placed his hand over one of George’s and slipped it under his shirt ever-so slightly, a silent question in his hands and a whispered one on his lips. “Can we?” George answered wordlessly, his other hand following the first’s order and creeping underneath the pinkish fabric. Matty shivered. “Christ, your hands are cold,” he covered, not wanting to admit the real reason for the action.

George, on the other hand, was quite surprised at his own advances, but didn’t stop to question them. He did want this, he realized, despite being a little confused as to why he had been so cautious with Matty in the first place. He tugged at the hem of the shirt, and Matty nodded in reply to yet another unspoken question; within seconds the shirt was discarded and lay beside them. George broke from the kiss they had reconnected and let his lips travel to Matty’s neck, which brought a soft, tiny intake of air from the recipient.

This was when George noticed the slightly-faded scars that ran from just under his armpits to right before his sternum. Curiously, his thumbs traced over the pinkish scar tissue, and Matty felt his breath catch instinctively in his throat; he had never let anyone see his scars, much less touch them. He still wasn’t quite sure why he was so comfortable letting George, who was almost a complete stranger, see parts of him that he didn’t let even Alex see after a year’s relationship. He didn’t want to question this any further; he was worried he wouldn’t like the answer he found.

George sensed how Matty had reacted to the touch and immediately recoiled, apologies spilling profusely from his lips. Matty shook his head and assured him everything was fine, all the while silently berating himself for being so sensitive. “Keep touching me, please,” he asked, a little shyly. George complied, admittedly almost too eager to do so.

“You - you can touch me further,” Matty said softly, knowing how gentle George was being was likely because of his apprehension towards making Matty uncomfortable. “Any - anywhere you like.” He swallowed, nervous at what his statement had implied, but he was willing to be more open with George than anyone else.

“If, erm, if you feel uncomfortable, you’ll tell me, right?” George asked, to which Matty nodded. George continued to kiss down Matty’s body, his thumbs grazing slightly over his nipples, which elicited a soft giggle from Matty. George looked up, confused.

“I can’t feel much there anymore, you twit,” he laughed, using the insult affectionately. “But, um, my favorite place to be kissed is my stomach,” he told him, biting at his lower lip as George made his way down to the place Matty had described. His lips were warm and soft, and Matty almost immediately squirmed at the feeling. “Georgie -” he half-gasped; he was nearly embarrassed at how easily flustered he got at the feeling. George, on the other hand, adored it. His kisses trailed down a little lower. His hands found Matty’s slender hips, gripping them tightly, but not quite roughly enough to leave bruises.

Impatient already, Matty took George’s hands and guided them down, albeit a little clumsily, to the button of his tight, ripped black jeans, prompting him to undo them. “Please,” he requested, his voice soft but sure as to what he wanted. George obeyed, and began slipping them off the slender boy’s small frame once they were undone. A little worried about what his reaction might be if George ventured any further, he returned to kissing Matty’s torso, maybe even leaving a few tiny bruises against his skin.

“George,” Matty called out, to which George looked up from where his head had been bowed, and the sight had him in awe. Matty’s dark curls spilled out over the bed, forming something like a halo around him, and his plump, soft lips were still swollen from the earlier kisses. His pale, thin body contrasted beautifully with the dark duvet, and he looked even smaller than usual, which poured a certain protective, nearly possessive feeling over George. He was beautiful, to say the least. “Touch me.” His voice was provocative and irresistible, and, coupled with the way he moved George’s hand to rest between his thighs, George nearly went insane with want. His delicate fingers traced circles against the dark fabric of Matty’s boxer-briefs, which he was (pleasantly) surprised to noticed the small, damp spot already darkening on the material. Matty’s breathing caught in his throat at the sensation. It was a new and exciting feeling, like stepping offshore into the ocean for the first time.

Matty swallowed hard and shook off whatever tensions were coming to mind. “Take your bloody shirt off, you’re making me nervous,” he demanded, and George cracked a crooked smile as he obliged. Matty looked up at the Adonis before him and tried not to blush. “Yes, your highness,” George responded as he let the article drop to the side of them with Matty’s shirt.

“Trousers too? Seems only fair,” Matty grumbled, ignoring how, for some reason, he loved the vulnerability he felt while lying half naked in front of George, who was now stood up and removing his own tight jeans. Matty smiled smugly. “Thanks,” he said passively as George climbed back onto the bed and began kissing his neck once again, his hands back to work as they had been. Needless to say, Matty’s expression of gratitude was interrupted with stutters of both surprise and pleasure, a mix that made his heart feel like it was in his throat.

Matty couldn’t stand the teasing. “George,” he beckoned once again, his smaller hand on top of George’s. He slowly, carefully slipped his tiny fingers beneath the waist of his underwear and pushed them off his hips, the prominent bones sticking out in a way George would only describe as artful. “Please.” The word was spoken with a tiny, pleading voice, one George could only melt for. He let his touch linger on Matty’s soft skin for a moment before taking a metaphorical step forward; the wetness on his fingers was enough to prove to himself how much Matty wanted this, wanted him. The softest whimper fell from Matty’s lips, and prompted George’s efforts to continue, until his fingers were inside of the tiny, squirming, moaning boy beneath him.

George, of course, was hard, almost painfully so. Watching Matty’s reactions, hearing every tiny gasp and moan and utterance of his name, was nearly too much. So when Matty mumbled an almost silent (and very breathy) “I - I want your mouth,” George was almost too willing to comply. Matty, to his embarrassment, made a noise caught between a squeak and a whimper when he felt George’s teeth nipping at the soft skin of his thighs almost instantly after his request. He could feel George grinning against his body. “Shut up,” he quipped, which only earned him a harder bite, one that he knew would leave a beautiful bruise.

His hands instinctively pulled at George’s hair the very second he felt his mouth against his heat, desperately wanting more, tempted to pull him in closer with every warm breath he felt against him. “G-Georgie,” he moaned, half-begging, and squeak-whimpered again when he felt George’s tongue enter him, then again when he felt the tiny patterns being traced against his clit. “Fuck,” he swore under his breath, his legs spreading open just the slightest bit more as George’s tongue set to work, unable to get enough of the euphoria filling his entire body with every touch. He gripped at the sheets beneath him with one hand, the other pulling at George’s hair and begging for more contact, needing it desperately.

When George added his fingers again, Matty knew he was a goner. Mindful of the fact that Gemma was still in the house, he bit his lip and tried his damnedest not to moan outright, but still, tiny murmurs of George’s name and some very select curses fell past his lips. It didn’t take long before he felt that familiar sensation in his abdomen, the one that he had felt the countless times he had touched himself before. “I’m c-close,” he stuttered, unabashedly pushing George closer to him as he approached his high, his knuckles white as he held fast onto the soft sheets.

George, who knew exactly what he was doing, increased his pace and pushed his fingers further into Matty until he felt his body constrict around them, when he then let his tongue take the lead. Matty whimpered and let a soft continuum of moans fill the otherwise empty room, his body relaxing back on the duvet, spent but still wanting more.

“Will you fuck me?” he asked, almost shyly, a mixture of not wanting George to feel left out but also wanting him like fucking mad. George was all too eager to comply, stripping out of his boxers in record time. “You don’t - you don’t need to use anything,” Matty told him, and George bit his lip, picking up on what Matty was asking. His hands found the little dip of Matty’s thigh, right before his hips began, and as he pushed into Matty his lips travelled all down Matty’s neck and back up to his softly sloping jawline.

It hurt. Matty wouldn’t lie about that. He had never had more than his own slender fingers inside of himself, and George wasn’t exactly small. But once something of a rhythm had been established, the pain gave way to euphoric pleasure, and Matty’s eyes rolled back before he could close them, something he knew George would notice and most like poke fun at in the morning. His nails raked down George’s back, thankfully not long enough to draw blood but definitely long enough to where George moaned, no qualms about his volume, the second they began their path. Matty felt a little self-satisfied about that, if we’re being honest.

“Harder. Please.” The plea was soft, but George heard it clearly, and complied, enjoying the tiny, gorgeous sounds that came from the smaller boy’s lips, his own pleasure drawing curses and praises alike. When Matty’s legs spread just enough to wrap around George’s waist, he knew, in a similar fashion as Matty from earlier, that wasn’t going to last much longer. His hips collided with Matty’s, and with a smug thought George realized how covered in bruises the tiny boy would be.

Matty gasped and moaned beneath George, the slight pain mixed with the immense pleasure driving him insane. He felt so small and beautiful under George, like everything was right for once, and he pulled George closer to him for a deep, meaningful kiss unlike any of those before.

“Inside me, please,” Matty begged, and George was, for the millionth time that night, properly surprised at his words. Beautiful timing, however, as he was just about to warn Matty of how close he was to his climax. Moments later, he was spilling inside of Matty, an unshy moan accompanying his curses, with Matty in a much similar state. George pulled him in for another kiss, his large hand cupping Matty’s cheek before he pulled out and lay beside him, just as spent as ever.

The only sound left in the room was their laboured breaths, and the ticking of a clock somewhere in the flat. Silently, Matty took George’s hand and laced their fingers together. Maintaining the wordlessness, he rolled onto his side and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, brushing his hair from his face afterwards.

“You’re beautiful, really.” This was George to Matty, and in the dim light of the room, Matty blushed bright enough to illuminate the whole flat.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, and before he could object, George was holding him close. Matty didn’t complain. He nestled his head in the crook of George’s muscled shoulder and let the comfortable silence lull him to sleep.

George, however, let his mind continue to race. Did he have feelings for Matty? He pushed the thought aside and gently brushed his fingers through Matty’s mop of dark curls, the sounds of the city below reflecting the busyness of his mind. He elected to consult Gemma in the morning. She always had a level head about these things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically, alex got his ass beat, matty lives with george now (temporarily? maybe? who know), and they fucked. george called matty beautiful and is now battling his feelings, which of course he will spill out to gemma.


End file.
